I stared, mesmerized by the small turtles climbing around in the display box. I wanted to touch the darling, small creatures. I reached out my hands but didn’t touch them because they didn’t belong to me. A sign by the box said the turtles cost 15 cents each. That wasn’t very much. I knew I had that and more in my piggy bank at home.

When we had entered Woolworth’s store a little while earlier, Mom stopped to look at the clothing and houseware displays. Impatiently, I scooted ahead to pass all that, plus the hardware section to get to the back of the store where they kept fish tanks and parakeets. I never wanted a fish or a bird but enjoyed looking at them. This store was so much more interesting than the dreadful fabric stores Mom spent most of her time at when we shopped in Marshfield.

My family lived on a farm twelve miles from Marshfield, and we very infrequently came to this town, since the small town three miles from our farm could supply most of our needs. About the time I was about to search for Mom to insist she come look at the turtles, Mom finally showed up. I immediately began begging, “I want a turtle! They’re only 15 cents! Aren’t they the cutest little things? Can I have one? Please?”

Mom watched the small, shell-clad reptiles climb over each other, as well as the damp sand and rocks for a minute before admitting they were cute, but emphatically stated, “No! We will not buy one! I’ve heard that people can get sick with salmonella from handling turtles.”

My heart was broken. The only thing that would have made me feel better would have been to sit and eat at Woolworth’s lunch counter. The smell of fried hamburgers and onions filled the store and called me to sit on one of the stools at the long counter which ran nearly the whole length of the store from the front to the back. The thought of eating somewhere other than at home seemed exciting. Mom quashed that idea even faster than my turtle idea. “No, we have food at home.”